It was always raining.

The sky persisted in grey. He knew this, yet still struggled to survive on a pinprick of hops. They told him that as long as there were humans, there would be no peace. Perhaps. But he kept trying to break the curse, holding tight to the fire that seemed infinite.

His friends echoed his dream-to become strong, to bring peace. And yet, he was still forced to choose. The choice became his downfall, his friend's act of love resulted in their deaths-and his continued breaths. The motive was lost to him; hatred was triggered.

There was no such thing as hope. People would never understand each other. Only pain thrived in the world. That pain created a mutual hatred-the closest thing to understanding. So he inflicted pain on others, not out of enjoyment or ambition, but out of more pain and more sorrow which his heart could not be lifted from.

His soul was poisoned; his heart wasted away. The effort to hate left his cheeks gaunt and ribs visible. The color from his hair faded to grey. The skeleton of his former self was not a result of a parasitic, inherent evil. No, he was an outcome of the world's flawed system: battles waged for peace and a peace that never came.

His life had been scoffed at and reduced to a pathetic state. He was a victim to humans: the weakest creatures, but the cruelest. He understood that humans were to be feared. They determined fate and played power into the palm of their hands. And so, he learned to play god, the ultimate passer of judgment.

He was pain. How could one hope for something nonexistent? He did not laugh at those dreamers; he scorned them. He understood the futility of self-sacrifice for love-that it would go to waste and end in betrayal. He understood what it felt to watch comrades fall alongside him. This was not pessimism, but reality.

The destruction of his soul never created evil. Each death he wrought on the world only spread pain. A ruthless one, a permanent and constant one, so unlike love or hope. When there was enough pain, there would be understanding among humanity.

Except for himself. His pain was far too great.
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He was the first to die. The only one to not stray.

They lived in a battlefield, a land between anger and hate. No one stayed; they roamed past, never looking back at the three children soaked by rain, victims of war. But this land became their home, a place they could return to. Even the forever crying sky could not wash away their memories.

He said he would become powerful and change the world. His conviction was unwavering. That was why he never had to choose. In the end, it was his life that was sacrificed. His inability to accept weakness and allow others to share his burden was his downfall. He did not think ahead, how his comrades would cope, how they were not like him—with a resolve built on hope, not loss.
He too easily believed in others. Power would not fall willingly into his hands, but he sought it anyways: in order to protect those close to him, and, naively, change the world.

In the end, he was happy, convinced his sacrifice would come to fruit. His friends would live on and carry his wishes. He never counted on them going astray. He never knew that he had been strong all along, and that power did not need to be attained, but merely manifested.

He never knew that strength was not power.

Still, his conviction carried through, cutting his dream short and prolonging the agony of his comrades. Indeed, for as long as he lived, he fought for this thing called peace. It was at great cost.
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She was a loyal friend. Their goals became her own. As long as they lived, she fought for them, alongside them. It did not matter if they murdered, stole, or sacrificed. They were her saviors; she was theirs.

Even with one of their deaths, her sorrow came second to supporting her remaining friend. Even when that remaining friend turned to despair and darkness, she followed—not blindly, but out of love and the desire to protect. And so they survived and endured together. As she watched him wither, her protectiveness for him grew. She did not try to anchor him to safety—she knew the black of his heart manifested and scarred. So she followed. She became his messenger, following orders without fear but concern. In that way, she could look over him.

And so, her every murder, act of deceit and evil could not corrupt her heart. She turned her actions black as her comrade’s soul became black. But she was never hopeless, despite embodying his ideals. She did not care for peace, war, or pain.

When he died trying for redemption, she did not fall to darkness as he had before. She laid his body down next to the corpse of their first deceased friend. The two bodies were covered in white flowers. She was the last one.

But their hopes and dreams lived on in her. Her life was theirs.
She died fighting for what they wanted. She always knew she would. Now, she could join them as the trio they were so many years ago. There was never betrayal. She had choices, but never needed to choose. Everything had always been so clear. Her dreams lived on because she knew how to cherish her comrade—those precious to her. Her goals far surpassed revenge.

Her dying breath was enough for her to see the rain stop.